Ficlet: Blood And Death
Apr. 20th, 2026 06:35 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
badly_knittedTitle: Blood And Death
Author:
badly_knittedCharacters: Ianto, Jack.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 656
Spoilers: Nada.
Summary: Ianto waits for Jack to revive from another blood-soaked death.
Written For: The prompt ‘any, any, bloody hands’, at
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threesentenceficathon.Disclaimer: I don’t own Torchwood, or the characters.
This is the worst part of being who he is, of working where he does, and Ianto hates it, each and every time, but he has to stay strong, because this isn’t just about him, what he thinks, and what he feels. In a way, he doesn’t matter, he needs to set his own emotions aside, deal with all of that later, because right now there isn’t time. Here, in this stinking alleyway, he needs to keep a clear head, something no one else is in any condition to do.
There’s blood all over his hands, again, sticky and cloying with a sweet, coppery scent, already drying in places, and flaking off, but it isn’t his blood. He isn’t hurt, not on the outside; there isn’t a mark on him. But inside, it’s a different matter, because this is Jack’s blood, again, and Jack is dead, again, and it tears Ianto apart every single time this happens. Even though he’s been here before, even though he knows it won’t be permanent, even though he knows in a little while the awful, ragged wounds in Jack’s chest will close, the skin will heal, as unblemished as ever, and Jack will draw that first, pain-filled, gasping breath as life returns…
Despite knowing all that, despite having been through this scenario so many times, and knowing he’ll go through it again in the future, he's still scared, always scared. Because he can never quite ignore that traitorous little voice in the back of his mind, the voice that whispers all the things he tries so hard not to think about.
What if Jack doesn’t come back? What if he’s really dead this time? What if he’s run out of luck, or whatever it is that keeps bringing him back time after time after time? What if there was always a limit to the number of times Jack could survive being killed? What if that first breath doesn’t come this time? What if Jack never opens his eyes again? What if he’s gone for good? What if he never gets the chance to tell Jack all the things he keeps putting off until some other time?
It doesn’t bear thinking about, so Ianto pushes those thoughts ruthlessly aside, and focuses on Jack, straightening his limbs, picking dirt and debris from his wounds, making him as comfortable as possible, under the circumstances. Even though he knows his lover can’t feel any pain right now, not while he’s dead, still Ianto tends to Jack as best he can, heedless of the blood staining his hands, because there’s nothing he can do about that right now anyway, and besides, everything is covered in Jack’s blood, not just Ianto’s hands.
There’s so much of it; he’s kneeling in it as he gathers Jack into his arms, dimly feels it soaking into his trousers, and that’s nothing new either, another suit he’ll probably have to consign to the incinerator as beyond repair. Who cares? Suits are replaceable, and it’s not as if he doesn’t own any others. He has a wardrobe full of them, and the rate he goes through them, he can’t afford to get too attached. Ruining more clothes is an insignificant detail, not worthy of his attention; the only thing that matters is that when Jack comes back, Ianto will be there for him, holding him, soothing him through the agonising transition between death and life as he draws that first breath before his wounds are fully healed.
Ianto hates dealing with the aftermath of Jack’s deaths, but he does it anyway, because he loves Jack, and in the end, it’s Jack’s comfort that matters, not his own. Ianto can fall apart later, when he’s alone, then put himself back together so he can be there for his lover the next time this happens, because for as long as Ianto lives, he never wants Jack to come back from death all alone.
The End
There’s blood all over his hands, again, sticky and cloying with a sweet, coppery scent, already drying in places, and flaking off, but it isn’t his blood. He isn’t hurt, not on the outside; there isn’t a mark on him. But inside, it’s a different matter, because this is Jack’s blood, again, and Jack is dead, again, and it tears Ianto apart every single time this happens. Even though he’s been here before, even though he knows it won’t be permanent, even though he knows in a little while the awful, ragged wounds in Jack’s chest will close, the skin will heal, as unblemished as ever, and Jack will draw that first, pain-filled, gasping breath as life returns…
Despite knowing all that, despite having been through this scenario so many times, and knowing he’ll go through it again in the future, he's still scared, always scared. Because he can never quite ignore that traitorous little voice in the back of his mind, the voice that whispers all the things he tries so hard not to think about.
What if Jack doesn’t come back? What if he’s really dead this time? What if he’s run out of luck, or whatever it is that keeps bringing him back time after time after time? What if there was always a limit to the number of times Jack could survive being killed? What if that first breath doesn’t come this time? What if Jack never opens his eyes again? What if he’s gone for good? What if he never gets the chance to tell Jack all the things he keeps putting off until some other time?
It doesn’t bear thinking about, so Ianto pushes those thoughts ruthlessly aside, and focuses on Jack, straightening his limbs, picking dirt and debris from his wounds, making him as comfortable as possible, under the circumstances. Even though he knows his lover can’t feel any pain right now, not while he’s dead, still Ianto tends to Jack as best he can, heedless of the blood staining his hands, because there’s nothing he can do about that right now anyway, and besides, everything is covered in Jack’s blood, not just Ianto’s hands.
There’s so much of it; he’s kneeling in it as he gathers Jack into his arms, dimly feels it soaking into his trousers, and that’s nothing new either, another suit he’ll probably have to consign to the incinerator as beyond repair. Who cares? Suits are replaceable, and it’s not as if he doesn’t own any others. He has a wardrobe full of them, and the rate he goes through them, he can’t afford to get too attached. Ruining more clothes is an insignificant detail, not worthy of his attention; the only thing that matters is that when Jack comes back, Ianto will be there for him, holding him, soothing him through the agonising transition between death and life as he draws that first breath before his wounds are fully healed.
Ianto hates dealing with the aftermath of Jack’s deaths, but he does it anyway, because he loves Jack, and in the end, it’s Jack’s comfort that matters, not his own. Ianto can fall apart later, when he’s alone, then put himself back together so he can be there for his lover the next time this happens, because for as long as Ianto lives, he never wants Jack to come back from death all alone.
The End
